Fallen Hard
by Garrae
Summary: "She came. He hadn't expected it: they'd lost their anniversary dinner to a rain check and the simmering idiocy that was Esposito and Ryan. But she came... And he would conquer." Spoilers for 8.07. One-shot.


**Fallen hard**

She came.

He hadn't expected it: they'd lost their anniversary dinner to a rain check and the simmering idiocy that was Esposito and Ryan behaving like two toddlers; one of whom unexpectedly lost the race and then accidentally hit the other with a toy train.

But she came. Bittersweet, when he opened the door: she wasn't dressed up and it wasn't the gourmet meal he'd arranged: planned as the first step in a wholesale seduction. But she came to him. He hadn't asked her to, hadn't expected her to, somewhere deep in his heart, maybe hadn't wanted her to. In some way, he felt that he should be winning her back, not leaving it all up to her. Time out or no time out. Of course he trusted her, of course he loved her… but that question in the lawyer's office had bitten much harder than it should have done: pricked all his insecurities.

But she came. She came, and came with Remy's takeout. Such a very coded signal: their first not-a-date-though-it-really-really-was, had been at Remy's. So long ago, now. So very long ago, where it all didn't begin, but somehow it did. The end of the beginning, perhaps; and so maybe this was _not_ the beginning of the end.

She looked uncertain for an instant, as if he might be hurt that she came with food, as if he might be hurt she came at all. But she'd come to him, to celebrate their anniversary and take time out from this time-out she'd forced on them. Time in. She came bearing a message that only he would understand, and the light in her eyes was that same light she had had the night they found their always; the day that he proposed and she said yes; the night before that first attempt to get married – and the day they did. He couldn't mistake that look, that light.

For the first time in weeks, he was sure, right down to the marrow of his bones and the blood hot in his veins, that she still loved him as much as ever she had, as much as he loved her, and the knowledge fired his nerves and his brain and his body. She had come.

And he would conquer.

She'd barely shut the door when he was on her: their connection still as burning bright and hot as ever, fuelled on separation and desperation. If this were to be the only night they would have, he was going to make sure that it lasted them for as long as it took for her to return. He could be perfectly sure, now, that she would return. Her frantic, clinging response to his hard possession told him so.

He'd not even tried to hold any semblance of control. She came, with her message, and he wasn't going to pretend he didn't know what she meant. Once, long ago, she'd bought him burgers at Remy's, and it had – not started, but certainly accelerated – them down a track that led them here.

He seized her, and seized her mouth, and there was no letting go after that. He kissed her in a way he very rarely had, completely possessive, completely in command: the way he'd kissed her after she'd almost died at Vulcan Simmons' hands and he'd read her note to him. He took her mouth without apology or compunction and hauled her hard into him. She opened and ceded and yielded and gave to his taking. He knew where they were going, now. Maybe not tonight, maybe not this week, or even this month. But buried in the subtext of accepting a dinner invitation, of then replacing it, perforce, with burgers from Remy's, shining from the light in her eyes and burning in the heat and curves of her body pressed against him and her surrender to his demands, he knew that this was not their end. Never their end. And soon, soon, she would be able to tell him what was going on.

He stopped kissing for long enough to drag her over to the counter and leave the burgers there, then simply towed her to the bedroom, plundering her mouth and raiding hands across her body to keep her there, close in, painted over him. Once there, forceful in a way that sometimes he knew she needed: sometimes when she needed him to be all-encompassing, to let her stop and give in and surrender; he stripped her down to her underwear – still, or maybe just tonight, in scraps of silk and lace that she only wore for him. This set he gave her, and he knew she would have picked it out deliberately.

His mouth fell from hers to her neck, no marks left there, and then to her sharp collar-bones, a little line of nips that would be a reminder in the morning.

"You're mine, Kate. No matter what. Always mine."

"Yours," she gasped. "Always yours, no matter what." He played with the fabric of her bra, sliding it across her and following fingers with mouth, leaving her shaking and unsteady on her feet. She whimpered, and slid her fingers into his hair, and he sucked hard and then stopped and felt her hands tense on his skull as she spoke. "Please. Please let me love you tonight."

"You will, Kate. You will." His hand dropped past her waist and slid between her legs, slipping over the already-soaked fabric. "But first I'm going to love you. My choice, tonight." His fingers pushed the briefs aside and danced over her, hard enough to make his intent clear. She would be open and begging before he was done, wholly caught up in him. His mouth continued on her breasts, his fingers firm across her slickness and then moving in rhythm with his suckling, in and out, suck and release, and she began to moan and plead with him to take her, fill her and be inside her.

"Not yet," he whispered. "Not yet," and let her drop back and then began again. He laid her out on the bed, placed at his disposal and desire, and bent to his favourite form of punishing her, just a little, for the mess they were in. She was sobbing his name long before he finished, frantic and crying out to touch him, give him the same overwhelming scalding pleasure, but he wouldn't allow her that. Not yet.

When he finally pushed into her she had lost all words, even his name: he was barely seated when she screamed and came around him and that was all it took for him too: collapsed over her and imprisoning her in his body. Tonight, she wouldn't be going anywhere. Tomorrow would be a different matter, so he thought he knew. But he had this one night to give them both strength to carry on.

Finally he allowed her to escape his capturing arms: hadn't in any way had his fill of her simply pressed close against him and holding him as he held her; but he knew that she needed to love him and this was about _both_ of them. So he released her and let her move over him: her hands exploring as if she'd never seen or touched him before; as if this were the first explosive time. She touched and stroked, kissed his mouth and then downward in all the secret places that she knew he loved best; used her mouth and tongue and fingers and tiny little touches of teeth, wrapped around him, kneeling in front of him and not stopping, not ever stopping until he cried out her name in his turn.

Lost in the white-hot rush of _her_ , it took him a moment to realise that she hadn't risen to join him on the bed: that she was still kneeling on the floor, all the joy that they took in each other drained.

"Come here." He pulled her up and across him, tucked her in. "Talk to me. Tell me what's wrong." His pain spilled over. "We're stronger together, Kate. Don't shut me out. I'm trusting you, but you won't trust me. Stop pulling away. If it isn't me – you keep saying it isn't me, and I have to believe you – then it's you. We've been here before, and the only way it's ever been fixed is when we _both_ talked to each other. When you've finally let me in. Don't take us there any more. Let me in."

When she spoke, grief thickened her words, truth finally spilling out, the way it only ever had in moments of extreme and private emotion: only with him, the Kate that no-one else ever saw.

"I can't do this anymore. I shouldn't involve you. I wanted to keep you safe." Dampness trickled over his chest. "I thought I could solve it and you'd always be safe and there and _alive_. I could use Vikram because I don't care about him. Why'd you think I haven't got Ryan and Espo involved? I can't bear to put them in the line of fire either. Not for this. But I can't do it without you and even though if I bring you in I know I'm deliberately putting you in danger I can't… I wasn't going to have dinner with you because it puts a target right back on your forehead but I couldn't say no. I miss you so much and it's selfish to need you like this but I can't do it on my own any more." A wider pool of salt water.

"Kate…"

"If you died, or got hurt… it would be because of my decisions. Then I'd go down the same path my father did but I'd never come out. I couldn't face that. Losing you would kill me too. If you died... you _know_ how my dad went after my mom died. I'd... I'd be worse. I'd never come out it. I'd never want to come out it. I'd follow you in three months. You… you're everything. But now…"

"Now?" It sounded to him like there'd been some sort of change, suddenly. "Why now?" He rolled her over, leaned up on one arm, looming over her, looking down into her white face: open and her thoughts unconcealed.

"Something's off. Something's wrong. Vikram's trying too hard to keep us apart. I ran him" – he gasped – "Of course I ran him. I'm not that stupid. I ran your so-called stepmother too" –

" _What_?"

"Rita. Claims to be married to your father. Public records say she's married to one Jackson Hunt. Whether that's your father or some other Jackson Hunt is open to question. Right now, I'm not inclined to believe her."

Her voice had changed, the snap of investigative cop command overcoming her emotions. Always the detective.

"Stepmother? I have a stepmother? Why didn't you say?"

"I don't know if she _is_ your stepmother. Anyway, she's as elusive as your father. I didn't say because I didn't believe her the first time and I haven't found anything to prove it one way or the other. And because I was trying to keep you out of this and keep you _safe_. You would never have stayed out of it if you thought there was family in the mix."

He knew that to be true. Still, he had to know why she'd changed her view, and why she felt so upset by it.

"So what's changed? Why tell me now, Kate? Why any of this? Just – why?"

"I don't trust Vikram. I ran him. It seems clean but I think he's playing me. Us. I don't believe the checks. Everything I know tells me this is about drugs, but he's not finding anything. So he says. But I've picked up enough that I think this involves inbound trafficking" – he startled, above her – "and yesterday I stumbled over a picture of a _friend_ " – she put a bitter twist on that, and suddenly he started to understand – "of yours. Remember the fake Henry Jenkins?" She breathed in, and her face twisted, momentarily ugly. "The one who nearly managed to break us last time? I think someone's trying it again, and I've fallen for it all these weeks. Someone's trying to split us up and they've used all my weakness about keeping you safe against me. They knew I'd do anything to keep you safe." Tears began to puddle in her eyes again. "I thought I was protecting you and protecting us and me and all I've done is fallen into a trap."

"No. You haven't quite fallen in. Or if you did, you've climbed out again." He patted her reassuringly. "I'm not saying I don't wish you'd worked it out earlier – lots earlier – but now you have, and you're here, and _we_ can sort this out. _We_ can take them down, Kate. Just like before, just like always."

He stroked down over her side, let his hand rest on her hip, and dipped down to kiss her hard and possessively once more. She opened under him, tears still drying on her eyelashes, and responded to his invasion with complete surrender, giving him everything back. He felt her hands on his shoulders, her grip still tense, almost painful, as if he would leave her if she didn't hold on to him. The unusual neediness fired him to show her that he would be the one who'd be there beside her, to protect as well as be protected. They were both so bent on protecting everyone single-handed, he realised, that they forgot that it took the two of them to guard each other's backs.

He dived back into her mouth, instant explosion, and she curved into him, her leg rising around his waist to press against him where they needed each other most: heat flaring around them again. Her hand slid down to grasp at his ass, his moved across the jut of her hip to slither into the soaked scorched flesh and rearrange her, placing her where he could simply move once, hard, and be fully within her again; listening to her moan his name, move to his rhythm, simply be his, lost in him and completed by him. He had missed her so, and there she was around him, tight and hot and wet and always and only his.

A little later she was locked in his arms again, sprawled over him so that he could gently nibble at her ear or lips or play with her small soft breasts or tease her as he liked. As she liked, too.

"So I wanna help. Time to bring me in. There must be something I can do that you can't. Promise I'll be careful." She shuddered.

"I didn't want you involved, but I can't stop it now I've worked it out. We're in this together, we have to be, because no faceless group is going to break us." She stopped, controlled the rise of grief and fury in her tone. "We need to tear Vikram's life apart. If he swatted a fly when he was six, we need to know it. I can't do it on the books. I need a PI." She smiled ferally, and his answering smile was equally vicious: two mated predators against the world. "You're the only PI I know and trust."

He moved once, against her. "I'll do it," he grated. " _We_ will bring that little bastard down, and if we need to _we_ will bring the world down around his ears, and around everyone else involved." He moved again, poised point perfect at her entrance. She sank down and took him in. He kissed the hard peaks in front of him.

"You'd better not know any other PI like this," he growled, nipping at her, a little humour grazing his expression.

"I don't want to. I love you. No one else. Never anyone else." She shifted on him, taking him deeper, reaching to stroke where they were joined, taking them higher and higher and it was like the first time, the very first time: when they couldn't get enough of each other, hopelessly passionate, pent-up desire and love and desperation: bone deep, body and soul, utterly committed.

Yet, when that was done, still she was not.

"I can't… can't do or be anything without you. I just needed you to be _safe_ : there for me to come home to."

"Only safe with you. Not apart. Anyway, you're the cop with the gun." His brief levity roused a tiny smile.

"I wanted you safe," she repeats. "So I had a home to come back to."

"Here?"

"You. You're home."

"We _will_ make it happen. _Us_. Safer together, Kate."

"Yeah. But…I'll have to pretend. But Rick... you know what it meant when I used to say I'm fine. I need you to remember what _fine_ means. You have to remember, because I can't say it out loud. I can't risk it. You."

 _Oh, Kate_ , he thought. _Oh, Kate_. _What a subtext._

"I… don't have to like it. But I get it. Okay."

She was crying again, at his words, bitter unlovely sobbing, clinging to him – most un-Kate. "You have to be careful. I _won't_ lose you. I didn't start all this and leave" – she gulped miserably – "to protect you just so you could throw yourself in danger. You're _not_ to get hurt." She sniffed. "If you get yourself killed I'll come after you and kill you for stupidity." More like usual Kate. If only she hadn't started to weep again immediately, broken at the thought that he might be hurt or killed. He held her tightly until the storm blew itself out.

"I'll try. If you try."

" 'Kay," she sniffled.

He rolled her, then, to pet and cosset her; to let his size and strength surround her and then to lay slow, delicate seductive kisses on her lips, then throat, behind her ear and down the lithe curve of her neck, open to him and soft beneath his caress. Further down, still soft and gentle, slow and seductive; the warmth of a fire in one's hearth at home, not the blaze at the centre of a remote star. She curved and curled into his quietly arousing touches of hands and mouth. Still lower, still slow, but now overtly sensual and seductive, and she mewls and sighs, writhing a little before he had even reached his goal.

Finally, lowest, softly teasing, skimming slickened skin, tracing her with careful tongue, wordless statements of love; and this time it was quiet noises and twisting under his hands and he stopped, slithered up the bed beside her and for the last time that night rose above her and thrust home into the welcome of her body; stealing her words from her lips: _Castle, I love you_ , and both of them were home, here, together and complete.

He forgot how near the edge of the bed he was and rolled over, off her, so as not to squash her but to keep her in his arms for as long as might be before they began their newest investigation – and fell out, letting go of her and grabbing at the comforter in a desperate effort to save himself.

She made sure he wasn't hurt, then laughed at him sitting on the floor, a little nonplussed, with the comforter around him, and then leaned over and kissed him more, that desperate passion of earlier rekindled in the knowledge that the night is over and a new cold day dawning. But today they start to face up to it together, no more being apart, no more _protection_.

Her phone buzzed as she was in the bathroom, washing and dressing in the dawn light. He read it. She would know he had. She knew just how curious he could be.

"Hey, I think your phone buzzed," he said.

She read the text, looked at him.

"Everything all right?" he asked.

"Yeah, fine."

And he knew that shortly they would be working together again, unseen and unsuspected. Because she'd just told him that nothing was fine at all. His newest investigation started here: the stakes higher than ever before. He was sitting on the floor where he had fallen, watching her leave, watching her fall back into the mire.

But this time, _this_ time they will fall together.

 _ **Fin.**_

* * *

 _From a request by **DrDit92** , to explain why Castle was on the floor and Beckett on the bed. As you will have noticed, it mutated. _

_Thank you to everyone who reads or reviews._

 _Please note that I am not responsible for the showrunners' decisions, and that abusive reviews will be deleted. As said before, I don't give airtime to attention-seeking trolls._


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